I am just a bloggin’ fool today. Too many things to blog about before we leave on Tuesday for Colorado. My trip back to Hyde Park will be only a blur by then more than likely, with my head stuffed full with that trip to my other “home.”

For my Mom—and after all we really did this stroll down Memory Lane for her—no trip back to Poughkeepsie would be complete without eating pizza at Aloy’s Restaurant. We could only hope that this culinary experience would prove all she remembered it to be.

We used to eat there quite a bit when I was a child, but I don’t remember much of it, and I certainly don’t remember eating pizza. I think I usually had spaghetti. My Mom likes to tell the story of me spilling a Coke in my spaghetti and I ate it anyway, Coke and all. I guess I’ve always been an adventurous eater. Anyway, we ordered a plain cheese pizza and waited for it to arrive. It looked and smelled delicious.

Mom said it wasn’t quite like she remembered it being. She told us that it used to come with Parmesan cheese just grated over the top instead of the mozzarella melted into the sauce. We just nodded and thought to ourselves that she must not be remembering right. Who just put cheese on a pizza without melting it? It was very tasty, and I think we were all satisfied. Aloy’s didn’t disappoint our taste buds.

When I went to their website to add a link, imagine my surprise when I read the following quote:

“Founded in 1929 by Joseph & Anna Aloy, our restaurant became famous for having the best pizza in the Hudson Valley. Our square pizza has remained a trademark of the business for it’s delicious taste and thin, crispy crust. A popular alternative among our customers is substituting grated parmesan cheese on top of our pizza, which many consider a “lighter” alternative to the traditional mozzarella. Try any of our pizzas, and join the growing number of people who now cannot go back to eating just any pizza.”

By golly, Mom was right! They did do grated Parmesan on top! How about that? The next time we go back we’ll try it the “original” way.

No trip down Memory Lane would be complete without a stop to the school where I attended Grades 2-6. Staatsburg Elementary School. It now sits alone and deserted. Its halls and classrooms empty of the sound of children. Even the playground swings and jungle gym that were still there seven years ago have now been taken down. Don’t you think it’s a handsome building?

See that room on the basement level on the left side? That’s my fifth grade classroom. I had Mr. Jubar that year. What a stir he made in a school that up until then had employed only older women for teachers! He was fresh, young, exuberant, and we loved him. One of the best teachers I’ve ever had. Here’s our class photo. Can you find me? No, of course you can’t, you don’t know what I look like. Okay, see Mr. Jubar in the middle? Count over two girls to the right and there I am! Second in from the right, second row from the top. My best friend, Debbie Volce is sitting right in front of me. I had a crush on Mark DeLucca (bottom row; first boy on right). I think I pestered that boy silly.

On to sixth grade. My classroom was on the top level, last room on the right. Mrs. Charbonnet’s class. She was a hoot of a teacher. She was convinced that the whole “man landing on the moon” thing was a hoax. She believed that they had filmed the whole thing on a Hollywood film set. No joke, she really did believe that.

There I am again, same spot with my long finger curls. oh boy. There’s that creepy boy (back row, third from left), I think his name was Chris, that rode his bicycle to my house one day. I hid in my room until he went away. There’s Julie Mayer standing next to me on the left. She was glad I left since she got my coveted spot in Ensemble [a special chorus group that got to put on musical revues throughout the year].

I think about them once in a while and wonder how their lives turned out. What they’re doing now, and do any of them remember me? We moved to Florida before the school year was over that year. I didn’t get to perform the HukiLau in my grass skirt. What would my life have been like had we stayed? Would I have finally convinced Mark DeLucca to be my boyfriend?

My life followed a course very different than theirs, and I certainly have no complaints, but it’s only natural to wonder ... what if?

Warning: continue reading at your own risk. What follows are the ramblings of a person who has just taken a nostalgic trip down Memory Lane. If you choose to read further, please don’t blame me if you are bored to tears at the end.

As an early Mother’s Day “gift” for my Mom while she was down visiting us, we took a day trip “home.” Back to our roots, and where I spent the first twelve years of my life: Hyde Park, New York. Home of Franklin D. Roosevelt and the Monroe family. Where I learned to swim even though my Mother doesn’t think I can. Over the next few days I’ll be taking you there. It’s only the second time I’ve been back in 40 years, the first time being just after my Father passed away seven years ago.

I hope this won’t be too boring for some of my blog readers, but after all, my blog is mainly for me as a journal of things I want to remember in my daily life. There seems to be quite a few of you out there reading, so I must be keeping some kind of audience through all my blabbing. I hope at least my sister enjoys this short series of posts. I know she reads; she just doesn’t comment. (hint, hint, wink, wink, sis!)

The sign above has significant meaning for us. See that silhouette of Mr. Roosevelt? That’s my Father’s design and they are still using it some 47 years later. Even Rick could recognize the hand of my Father. He should. My Father’s artwork hangs on nearly every wall of our house. I think he even blended a little “Fred” into “Franklin.” There is a similarity around the forehead and nose ... He had a way of putting something of himself into everything he did.

We drove down Main Street in Poughkeepsie, trying to identify buildings and places that existed 40 years ago. Do you realize how much things change? We found a few things familiar, like the storefront that used to be S. S. Kresge where we always ate chicken salad sandwiches at the lunch counter, but mostly what we remember is long gone. The department stores, the luggage store, the dress shops; all gone. Trampled by the passage of time and new shopping malls. Poughkeepsie has suffered somewhat over the years, but they are trying to bring back the downtown area. From what we saw they’ve made a great start.

Thankfully, some things don’t change much. We drove past the tiny house where my Father was born, and where he and my Mother lived for the first few years of their marriage. Some changes have been made to the house, like an added front porch and new exterior, but otherwise it’s the same.

The house where my Mother spent her teen years is still there as well, but much worse for the wear. She has wonderful memories wrapped around that house and it was sad for her to see it in a state of neglect. Time marches on.

Next stop was the small grocery store that was owned by my uncle. [For a while it was co-owned by he and my Father.] It hasn’t changed much. In fact, I think all the freezer cases and the meat counter case are all the original ones that were there 40 years ago! In other words, it’s a little run-down.

Things are not organized very well on the shelves and as we walked around the store we found ourselves with a fit of the giggles. Take a look at an example:

The man who owns it now remembers my uncle and even has a photo of him tacked up on the bulletin board. The only thing missing from the store for me was the big coffee grinder and the smell of freshly ground coffee beans. My Mother was always sending me up to the store for something and I knew the path from our house up to the store nearly by heart. It seemed a lot further then than it actually is. Don’t tell my Mother, but when she sent me up for a jar of mayonnaise, I always opened it up on the way home, stuck my finger in it and sucked it clean. I had a thing for mayo. Still do. It must be Hellmann’s, of course. (Hey, at least I didn’t stick my finger back in the jar after licking it clean. After all, about one finger-dip of mayo is really enough.)

We lived on the property adjacent to the store and set back in from the road. In our minds we see the house being a long way from the road down a looong drive. But now it’s not. Did the house move? Did the road move? Our house is now being used as an office for an oxygen supply company. They built a huge building between our house and the road where there used to be an open field. My grandparents’ house, which was behind our house, is gone and in its place is an industrial garage building. Cars, a fire truck, and all kinds of paraphenalia are parked and scattered here and there where we used to have a stand of trees and picnic tables. The small playhouse my grandfather built for us is long fallen down. Gone is the swing set and sand box.

We had a built-in barbecue under those trees too. My grandfather would fire it up in the summertime and make his famous clam chowder (Manhattan style) outside. Poppy made the best clam chowder; or at least we remember it that way. He was always the outdoor chef and not my Father.

As we drove in we noticed that the forsythia hedge still lines the driveway, but the big pine trees in what was once the front yard are gone. A security truck with the emblem of the oxygen company pulled up behind us. The man looked at me suspiciously and asked if he could help us. I told him we used to live here. He nodded and smiled like it was the most common thing in the world and then he asked me, “do you want to have a look inside?” “Sure! Thanks!” I replied. He remembered our last name, amazingly enough. It strikes me as strange that these strangers “know” us; both in the store and here at our house. Even after all this time. It’s a very grounding feeling.

They’ve made a few changes and taken down the walls where my sister’s and my bedroom were and taken out the bathroom. I can’t imagine two bedrooms and a bathroom in the space that remains. My room was SO BIG. The kitchen area looked about the same except for no cabinets and a moved wall. The living room area is now tiny and the den where my Mom presided over her prized hardwood floor has shrunken to about half its size. How could we have gotten a piano and a large organ in that room? The house seems to be getting smaller as it ages, like a wizened old woman, shrinking in on itself. It’s just a shadow of its former self, or at least the way we remember it being. Sorry, I am not including a photo because I choose to see it as it used to be, not as it is now.

Isn’t it funny how the mind remembers things? No one moved the house, it’s always been exactly where it sits now. Neither has the house changed size. Instead, our lives have gotten broader, our horizons expanding further and further away, leaving our family house behind. Yet the house, as it was then, still lives on in our memories. And there are plenty of those. Good ones. Happy ones.

I guess the old saying is really true. You really can’t go home again, can you? Memories are all we have.

My Mom hates them because they are messy trees to have in the yard, always dropping bits and pieces of peeling bark. I like them. As a child I would pull the peeling sections off the tree and use them as writing paper or whatever else my vivid imagination could conjure up. We don’t have any in our yard; these were taken at my Mom’s house in the Adirondacks just yesterday when I took her home after her week-long visit to New Jersey.

The hummingbirds have returned from their winter vacation, and right on time as well. My Mom says that they arrive at her house (in upstate New York) somewhere around the 5th, 6th, or 7th of May every year. They arrived here in NJ on Monday, May 7th. Amazing, aren’t they? I was just sitting there staring out at the bird feeder and there he was, checking out the thistle seed, which was not what he wanted.

Now the hummingbird feeder hangs in its place. The air is filled with the sound of whirring wings and noisy, bantering chitters. To me, as they whizz by my head, they sound like the light sabers in Star Wars; a deep humming, buzzy noise. These mightly little birds, light sabers drawn, are defending their “flower” kingdom.

I’m glad they’re back.